


Closed Doors and Open Windows

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe, F/M, or shade with a dash of smut, smut with a side of shade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Abbie Mills and Ichabod Crane are co-stars on a TV show, about to start their third season, when Ichabod's life takes a not entirely unexpected turn.





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s over.” Ichabod’s voice was quiet and slightly hoarse.

Abbie was confused. “What’s over?” She sat up and blinked awake. “Where are you?” She could hear noise and bustle in the background. _Is he at the airport?_ _H_ _e should have been here yesterday!_ The police procedural show on which they were the stars, _Faith and Hope,_ had its first table read scheduled for the next morning, and if Inspector Nathaniel Hope was absent, there would be no one for Detective Faith Archer to play with.

“London,” he sighed. “Well, Heathrow. Sorry about the time. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll call you when I get to Atlanta.”

“Wait! Ichabod!” she exclaimed, hoping to catch him before he disconnected. “What. Is over?”

“My marriage. Katrina didn’t want to come back to the U.S. Said she missed England too much. She… she asked me to give up the show. She gave me an ultimatum.”

Abbie sat up. “She did _what?_ What a…” she paused, biting back the word _bitch._

“In my anger, I gave her one right back,” he admitted.

 _Of course you did._ “You… you guys talked about that before you got married! She agreed to support you! She… _she_ was the one who pushed the wedding ahead of schedule!”

“I never should have… I _knew_ she would…” Ichabod paused, at a loss for words. “My brother was right.”

“Abraham? Really? What did he say?”

“He told me we were rushing things. Said she was too attached to her family, wanted to make sure I was absolutely certain about this.”

 _Well there’s a surpris_ _e._ “Wow. When did he say all that?”

“The night before the wedding. Aided by some tequila.” He sighed again. “In vino veritas, I guess.” He paused. “I don’t know what ‘tequila’ would be in Latin.”

She chuckled once. “That’s what they say,” she answered. “Look, Ichabod, I’m really sorry. When you get here, come to my house, okay? I’ll text you the address.”

“Miss Mills, I’m not certain that’s a very good idea…” he hedged, ignoring the tug in the pit of his stomach that wanted nothing more than to curl himself around his co-star and friend and absorb the sunshine that she is. In the two years they’d been working together, they have become very good friends. _Closer than some I’ve known for many years._

“You shouldn’t be alone. I don’t even like the thought of you being all alone on that plane, brooding for hours,” she said. “You come here and have dinner with me. I’ll cook you some _real_ soul food. It’s just what you need.” _Not that_ _organic holistic free-range vegan_ _shit or whatever the hell it is she was into this month. I mean, what even is quinoa? Give me some rice and beans any day._

Ichabod’s heart leapt a bit at the thought of real soul food. Oh, how he’d missed the American South. Cornbread, biscuits, fried okra, fried chicken… fried _everything._ “Fried chicken?” His question was small and hopeful.

Abbie smiled. “If that is what you want, then that is what you shall have,” she answered. “Get a little meat on them bones of yours.”

He smiled in return. “Not too much, or I fear the wardrobe mistress will become quite cross with me,” he replied.

“Are you… smiling?” she asked.

“Certainly not,” he answered, but she could hear the smile in his voice, she knew him so well.

“Liar. Go get yourself something decadent at Starbucks and wait for your flight,” she said. “That is not a recommendation; that is an order.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I knew you were the person to whom I needed to talk right now.”

“You’re welcome, Crane. Call me when you hit American soil, okay?”

“Okay.”

xXx

“Hey.” Abbie was dressed for comfort. It's unbearably hot in Atlanta, and while Crane was sweating through the back of his shirt, she looked cool and comfortable in a pair of soft capri pants and a tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was barefoot, and her smile, as always, was a beacon of light.

“Hey, yourself,” he said, stepping through the door. He had stopped at his rented condo first, where he literally dropped his things before walked the two units over to where she was staying, wondering where Jenny and Frank were.

Once Abbie's door was closed, her arms were around him, pulling him into a hug. “I'm so sorry, Ichabod,” she whispered.

His arms wrapped around her, just holding her, allowing himself to lean on her a bit. He knows that like her character Faith, she is stronger than she looks. “I am... all right...” he said. “Really.”

She leaned her head back and looked up at him. “You tryin' to convince me or you?” she asked, stepping back.

“Me,” he sighed, running his long fingers through his shaggy hair. Inspector Hope had longer hair than Ichabod Crane, but wearing a wig in the southern humidity was grueling, so he resolved to grow it out.

She smirked. “You're really doing it, huh? The hair?”

He nodded, thankful for a safe topic. “I am being optimistic that it will be worthwhile. I am confident we will not be unemployed after this season.”

“Ha, not like last year, hey?” she snorted, rolling her eyes at the memory of season 2, which experienced a bit of a sophomore slump, largely due to the showrunners' decision to not listen to what their fanbase wanted.

They were all fired during the summer hiatus and replaced by a much more diverse group of writers and producers who are determined to restore the magic that originally captured the hearts of their very passionate fans.

“Drink?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

She didn't ask what he wanted. She knew, and even had the whiskey out on the counter.

“I must say I am very sad to not have gotten to see your braids in person,” he said, following her into the kitchen, where savory smells were swirling around the small space. It was also at least 10 degrees hotter there. “Thank you for texting me the photos.”

“You’re welcome. And yeah, they were short-lived. I couldn't convince Leena to let Faith have them. 'Probably against police regulations, blah blah blah.' She is letting me go natural this season though, which was a very acceptable compromise.”

“Excellent. The braids were quite fetching though,” Ichabod said, lifting his drink to his lips. Most men in his situation would have knocked back the whole thing in one gulp. Not Ichabod. He sipped the drink like a gentleman, his long fingers holding the glass loosely but casually. Abbie found herself staring, first at his fingers, then at the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallows, then at his lips, pink and wet. His tongue darted out and swiped the moisture from his top lip. “Abbie?”

“Um, thank you. They were fun while they lasted,” she answered, reaching for her glass of wine. “Oh and I noticed you started following me again on Instagram and Twitter,” she quickly added before lifting her drink to her lips, unsure if she should have mentioned it.

He watched her plump lips as they hugged the edge of the glass, her large brown eyes as they darted away, then down, avoiding his gaze, and the elegant column of her throat. “Yes,” he simply replied, not needing to explain further.

“Hungry?” she suddenly asked, catching him off guard. The atmosphere was getting a little too tense.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, I'm famished.”

“It's all ready. I thought we could load up our plates in here then eat in the living room, since it's too hot in here now.”

xXx

They loaded their plates, then sat opposite one another at her coffee table. Abbie was glad she made a lot. Crane took twice as much as she did, and will probably go back for seconds. They ate silently for a while.

“I never even considered giving up the show,” he suddenly said.

“So she really said, 'The show or me?'” Abbie asked.

He nodded and said, “Such a cliché.”

“Glad _you_ said that, so I didn't have to,” she said, lifting her glass to her lips.

“I wasn't much better,” he admitted. “The choice I gave her was 'Me or England.' I don't need to tell you what we both chose. Am I terrible?”

Abbie leaned back on her hands, done eating. “Ichabod, she already made her choice before she offered you yours. She didn't choose you, so you don't need to feel bad about not choosing her either.” She leaned forward and softly said, “I may know a little bit about this sort of thing.”

He nodded, not needing to speak the foul man's name who broke her heart. “I remember,” he said, standing. “Excuse me,” he picked up his plate and headed back to the kitchen for more food. “You are an excellent cook,” he remarked on his return, his mouth full of something.

“Thank you,” she said, watching him sit. “I can't believe you're wearing pants,” she blurted, then, quickly corrected herself. “I mean, it's hot out. You should wear shorts. You've got good legs.”

“I have a pair or two. They're still packed. Airplanes can be cold,” he replied. He took a drink. “I was in my condo for precisely ten seconds before I came over here.”

Abbie smiled and drank the last of her wine. “Since when do you get cold?” she asked.

He sighed. “A steady diet of boiled vegetables and porridge will do that to a man,” he bitterly said.

“So, it's really true, then? Frank keeps going on about how unappetizing her blog is and how our fans have been throwing serious shade for months. Something about kale and tofu…”

Ichabod nearly spat cornbread across the table. “Oh, dear...” he said, trying not to laugh. “I wish I could deny it.”

“We'll get you fixed up real quick here, don't you worry,” she said, nodding emphatically.

Abbie had made dessert, but they decided to wait, sitting side by side on the couch, the Food Network quietly on TV. “Ichabod?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“You don't seem too... broken up about this,” she said, knowing their friendship is such that she can say something like this without fear. She looked down and noticed that he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. There was barely even a mark where it was. They hadn't been married long enough for one to form. “Has it not sunk in yet, or...?”

“To be perfectly honest, things haven't been good since we found out about the renewal,” he admitted.

“She _wanted_ it cancelled? Seriously? She wants you to be unemployed?” she asked, turning to face him, tucking her foot under her leg.

He nodded. “That's when it really started. 'Ichabod, we should buy a house.' 'Ichabod, the holistic food shop is hiring. I was thinking of submitting my C.V.' 'Ichabod, I'd like to put in a garden to grow organic vegetables.' 'Ichabod, we should go to Ibiza again this fall.'”

Abbie furrowed her brow, and made a flabbergasted face.

He nodded his agreement. “Whenever I brought up the show, she would change the subject. I couldn't even enjoy still being employed,” he continued.

“I'm sorry, but... that bitch,” Abbie finally said it, and it felt good to say. “How selfish.”

He nodded again and sighed. “Ibiza in the fall. That's right in the middle of filming! It was as if my life, my work, the biggest job I've ever had, were… nothing…” his voice died on the last word, and Abbie reached out to him, pulling him towards her.

She is so much smaller than he that it was slightly awkward, but he sagged against her, his head falling on her shoulder. Slowly, his arms crept around her, and they sat and held one another for a long time. Abbie rubbed his back and petted his hair, holding back the dragging she wanted to give Katrina. She knew this was not the time. His wounds are too new, and he needs support right now. Unconditional love. That is what he needs, so that is what he shall have.


	2. Chapter 2

Jenny noticed Ichabod's missing ring immediately, zeroing in on it with laser-like precision. She sat opposite him at the table, so it was right in front of her. The man cannot keep his hands still. In fact, there is joke on the set about the way to silence Ichabod is to tie his hands together. Jenny didn't say anything. She looked at his hand, then up to his face. He looked tired. Downtrodden. He caught her looking, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. He nodded his thanks.

When Abbie walked in, his demeanor brightened some. She plopped down beside him. “How are you?” she quietly asked.

“Fair enough,” he answered. “Thank you for dinner and your company last night.”

She patted his hand. “Anytime, Crane.” He left her house very late, both of them having fallen asleep on her couch. He awoke shortly after 2, an informercial on the TV and Abbie's head on his chest. He couldn't allow himself to admit how nice it felt. The pain was still too fresh.

“Season 3, bitches!” Frank's voice boomed from the hallway, and a second later, he appeared in the doorway. Everyone smiled, even Crane, the gregarious man's behavior always serving to break any tension or bring an unwitting chuckle to even the most somber among them. It was a marked contrast to the serious, no-nonsense police chief he portrayed on the show, and a testament to his skill as an actor.

Hugs and warm greetings were had all around, and soon the room was alive with laughter and chatter. The team was complete, and things were sliding back into place. When Frank noticed Ichabod's bare finger and dark circles under his eyes, all he said was, “Hey man, I'm sorry. Let me know if you need anything at all, a'ight?”

“Thank you,” Ichabod replied, his heart healing a bit. _This is where I belong. These are the people who truly love me._ Once everyone was present and accounted for, they settled in, scripts in hand, ready to dive into their work and give up real life for a while.

xXx

Shooting began a few days later. A few days after that, Crane received a large, very official looking envelope in the mail. His divorce papers. “She really did it,” he mused, turning the large, thick parcel over and over in his hands. He tossed it on the table of his trailer, picked up his cell, and sent Abbie a text.

_Will miss lunch. No appetite._

A second later, she replied. _Unacceptable._

He was just typing a reply when the door to his trailer opened.

“What's wrong?” Abbie demanded.

He waved vaguely at the still-unopened envelope, then stood and walked away from it, getting a bottle of water from the small fridge. He paused, then grabbed a second one as well.

“Is this what I think it is?” she asked, eyeing the return address. A London law firm.

“I do not believe it is a jury summons,” he dryly stated, handing her a bottle.

“Do you have a lawyer?” she asked, picking it up. He hadn't opened it.

“No. We were only married a year, it's not like we had time to accumulate a lot of shared...” Ichabod's voice died when he saw the look on Abbie's face. “I will get a lawyer,” he sighed, dropping into a seat opposite her. “I'll ask around for a recommendation.”

He dropped his head onto his table. Abbie wanted to reach out and comfort him, to lay her hand on his head, but he was still wearing the Nathaniel wig, so it was off limits. “Open the envelope, Crane,” she softly said.

“You do it,” he replied, not lifting his head.

“It's a federal offense to open someone else's mail,” she weakly protests. Her fingers are already poised over the _pull here to open_ tab.

“I am giving you my permission,” he countered.

“Fine,” she sighed, and pulled the tab. “Yep. Divorce papers. But I don't know what any of this means,” she said, lightly tossing the sheaf of papers towards him. “Which is why you need a lawyer.”

“I already said I would ask around,” he snapped. “Sorry,” he immediately apologized. “I know you are only looking out for me.” He reached for the papers with his long fingers, glanced at them, then stared off into the middle distance, idly picking at the corners of the pages.

A knock sounded at his door. “Abbie? Crane? We getting pizza or nah?” Jenny called.

“You need pizza,” Abbie said, her tone suggesting the subject was not up for debate.

“Pizza does sound very good,” Ichabod agreed. “Yes, one moment,” he called as he stood and offered his hand to Abbie.

She took it and stood. Then she turned to face him, paused, and rested her small hands on his chest. “Everything is going to be fine, Ichabod,” she quietly said, then moved her hands to his shoulders, pulling down as she lifted up on tiptoe. He obligingly lowered his head, accepting the light kiss she placed on his cheek.

 _Bang bang._ “Let's go! Hungry out here!”


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks turned into months. Ichabod found a lawyer recommended by a trusted crew member, and the details of the divorce were hammered out. He signed the papers a few weeks later.

Filming was going well, and the season three premiere was approaching fast. Abbie and Crane squeezed in a few interviews and appearances at time allowed. If an interviewer noticed Ichabod's lack of wedding ring, they were expressly forbidden from asking about or mentioning it.

One interesting development was Crane refused to do any interview without Abbie. He confessed to her that he “needed her strength right now” and didn't think he “would be able to get through one of these things alone”. That made things slightly more complicated, as the network had decided to actually start promoting the show properly. They were on Ellen. They were on Fallon. They were even on The Chew, where Abbie dazzled them with her culinary skill and Ichabod amazed them with his capacity to eat.

Everyone asked them about romance for “Faithaniel” now that Faith’s boyfriend, Matt, turned out to be a bad guy and was killed early in season two. “Chemistry”. “UST”. “You’re so pretty together”. It came up every time.

Thankfully, Ichabod and Abbie didn't know what the second half of season three was to have in store for them, so they were able to plead ignorance.

“Is it something you'd like to have happen on the show?” they would ask. Abbie would simply smile and give some coy, glib statement. Ichabod was a little more direct. “Well, it's kind of the natural progression of things, isn't it?” “I think it would be brilliant.” “I know the fans certainly would approve, and I think Nathaniel would as well.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Abbie asked him once, thankful her darker complexion hid her blush every time the question came up, which it did with increasing frequency. “You're just adding fuel to the fire!”

“Why do you keep evading it?” Ichabod would reply, his eyebrow quirking up. “Surely you don't want to feed that 'strong black woman who don't need no man' trope that I happen to know you hate,” he said, affecting a rather bad American accent mid-sentence.

Abbie sighed. “First, that accent was terrible.” He snorted a laugh. “And second, you know I don't. I just… well, you know I tend to play things close to the vest. It's safer that way,” she admitted. “You don't have to be that careful with what you say. I do. It's just how it is.”

He nodded, understanding. He remembered the small handful of fans who voiced their displeasure at Matt’s death last season. He was an attractive white man, so naturally the fangirls were shipping him more with Nathaniel than Faith. So there was a bit of an uproar when he betrayed the pair and wound up being shot by Hope. At best, the comments were misguided and ignorant; at worst, spiteful and racist. When these same “fans” started calling for the show to be cancelled, he knew they weren't worth a single thought.

“You do realize you give a lot away by _not_ saying anything or talking around the question, don't you?” Crane slyly asked.

“Not everyone can read me as well as you do, Crane,” she countered. “Now, come on. _Fear the Walking Dead_ is going to be on soon and I don't want to watch alone.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the car waiting to take them back to their condos.

xXx

As the weeks wore on, Ichabod and Abbie spent more time in one another's company, not realizing their personal relationship was mirroring Nathaniel and Faith’s on the show.

They ate nearly every meal together. Crane would often crash on Abbie's couch or vice versa. However, they didn't go out much because they were so easily recognizable together. Ichabod could go out and about without too much fuss, though he found he was getting noticed more and more as his hair grew. Abbie was always recognized. Together, not only were they recognized, but they worried about rumors.

Ichabod got the official notice that his divorce was final three days before they received the scripts for the finale.

_I: DID YOU READ THE SCRIPT?_

_A: why are you yelling?_

_I: DID YOU READ THE SCRIPT?_

_A: I flipped through it. Only on page 3._

_I: Go to the end. Penultimate page. I'll wait._

_A: You may be the first person who has ever texted the word 'penultimate'._

_I: GO_

“God, all right, what the hell?” Abbie said out loud. She set her tea down and flipped to the _penultimate_ page.

“Okay, we must be running around in the forest or something...” she mumbled, her eyes scanning the lines. “Faith gets knocked out, cool... oh.” She stared. It's there on the page, in black and white.

_Hope KISSES Faith._

“So that's why his chill levels have reached negative temperatures,” she said to herself, trying hard to ignore the delicious flip of anticipation her stomach just did at the thought of getting to kiss Ichabod.

She can't say the thought had never crossed her mind. Especially when people are always asking about Faithaniel. Or when she catches him staring at her lips. Or when she catches herself staring at _his_ lips.

She reached for her phone to reply to Ichabod's text just as a knock sounded at the door.

“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” she sarcastically muttered as she walked to the door. She opened it, took one look at the excitement on his face and said, “Ichabod Jacob Crane, if you even so much as _think_ about burritos when we film any of this episode,” she waved the script at him, “so help me I will climb you like a tree and choke you out.”

His eyes widened. “I would never in a million years dream of doing that to you, Miss Mills,” he innocently answered, surprised she even remembers the Burrito Incident of Season Two when Nathaniel was given a girlfriend for a disastrous three episode arc, one of the many missteps of the second season.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then stepped back to allow him inside. “That’s what I thought,” she said with a decisive nod. “Zoe was super pissed about that, you know.”

“Well, Zoe was very quick to dispense the pranks, but was never very keen on being on the receiving end of them,” Ichabod quipped, picking up Abbie’s mug and taking a sip. “Ugh, too sweet.”

“Get your own then,” she replied.

He quirked an eyebrow at her and walked into the kitchen.

“Ichabod,” Abbie said, following him, suddenly nervous.

“Yes?”

She exhaled. “Okay, this is weird, but…” She looked away, almost giving up and changing the subject.

“What is weird?” he asked, intrigued.

“Well, um...” _Why is this so hard?_ “ I've seen your work, and… I'm not sure I'm quite down with your kissing style.”

“My… kissing style?” He placed the teabag in his mug and raised a challenging eyebrow at her.

“Well, you always look like you're in pain, for one thing. Especially when you were with Zoe,” she started, still avoiding his gaze.

“I think you know why that was the case,” he quipped, scooping his teabag out. Abbie was well aware of his feelings towards Zoe.

“Fair enough, but... it's not just with Zoe. I’ve seen some other things you’ve been in, you know. You generally look kind of... stiff-lipped.” She peeked up at him. “I mean, you don't have a lot to work with there—”

“I beg your pardon!” he huffed, feigning insult, a light smile on his face. “I'll have you know Katrina never once—” He suddenly stopped, mouth hanging agape, eyes wide.

“Ichabod, I'm so sorry,” Abbie quickly apologized, suddenly feeling terrible. Her plan was to tease him a bit, maybe playfully suggest they practice before filming, then... _What was my plan, exactly?_ “I didn't mean anything by—”

“No, no, I know you didn't…” Ichabod answered, his voice small. He looked pale. He let his body slide down against the cupboards sinking to the floor. “For a few moments, I had forgotten, too,” he admitted. He looked up at her. His eyes were wide, but showed no sign of shedding tears. “My divorce has been final for three days, and I had already forgotten.”

She came over and sat beside him on the floor. “Something tells me she's already long forgotten about you,” she said. When he didn't reply, she backpedaled. “Sorry, that was insensitive of me.”

“No. You're right. I ceased to be in her thoughts before our marriage was officially over,” he said.

She leaned against his shoulder, and somehow his hand found hers between them, his thumb absently stroking her skin in that way he had. He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

Time seemed to stop for a moment. He leaned down, inclining his head towards hers.

_Too soon too soon too soon._ The mantra was like an alarm in her head. She suddenly sat up straight. “We need to be on set in an hour,” she quietly said, then squeezed his hand, and stood up.


	4. Chapter 4

Crane popped another mint into his mouth. Cinnamon, technically. He knows Abbie prefers cinnamon over peppermint.

It's been a week since the awkwardness in Abbie's kitchen, and she hasn't brought up anything about his “kissing style” since then. He didn't want to admit how willing he was to letting her tutor him in her version of the art of kissing, but he was also too afraid to bring up the topic.

Especially after she kind of rejected him.  _Of course she isn't interested. Why would she be? She is beautiful. Gorgeous. Intelligent, worldly... the coolest person I know. What am I compared to her. A gawky Englishman, that's what._

But today was the day. They were filming The Scene. The one that had been keeping him awake more nights than he was willing to admit.

“Hey.” Her voice made him jump, and she laughed. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was simply lost in thought,” he quickly answered. “You look… dirty.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied, curtseying delicately. Her hair was mussed, her sleeve was torn, and she looked like she'd just rolled in dirt. She even had a leaf stuck in her hair.

A leaf in her hair and butterflies in her stomach. She's never been so nervous to shoot a scene.  _I wasn't even this anxious when I had to do that topless scene._ “So—”

“Ichabod, Abbie.” They are called over before she can say anything.

Abbie was placed on the ground and positioned. Leaves were tossed at her. Ichabod stood nervously to the side, waiting. Wondering if he needed another mint.

He knew the scene backwards and forwards. Every line, every direction, every nuance. Knew how he wanted to say every syllable, when to twitch his fingers, how long to hesitate before pressing his lips to hers, finally getting to experience the lush fullness of Abbie's—

“Ichabod.”

“Right. Yes, I'm ready.” He waited while his costume was adjusted.

The scene was simple: Hope runs, searching for his fallen partner. Upon finding her, he is overcome with relief and another, unexpected emotion. Faith wakes, touches his face, and he kisses her.

Simple.

He was kneeling on the ground, cradling her in his arms as she was half-draped on his lap. Following the script, Abbie slowly blinked her eyes open to see Ichabod’s – Nathaniel’s – frightened face looking down at her.

“Hey,” she whispered. “I'm okay, Hope.” Her hand lifted, small fingertips hesitantly running through his beard.

“Faith.” His voice was a husky whisper. “I…”

Then his lips were on hers, soft and tentative.

It was not what Abbie was expecting. None of it was. She wasn't expecting his lips to be so pliant. She wasn't expecting his beard to be so soft. She wasn't expecting the lightest flick of his tongue.

She wasn't expecting to feel something.

Well, not  _that_ much.

She wasn't expecting him to be so  _good_ at kissing her.

He gently pulled away, and she blinked in surprise at him. Luckily, it was in the script. “What just happened there?” she asked, amazed she could remember her line.

He smiled and stroked her cheek. “Exactly how hard did you hit your head, Detective Archer?” he asked, amazed he could remember his line.

“Cut. Let's do it again from another angle. Maybe a little more kiss.”

_More?_ Ichabod merely nodded as he helped Abbie back down to her place. He stayed on the ground for a bit longer, unsure if his legs would hold him. His brain is still reeling from that kiss.  _I've never felt anything like that before. Her lips are simply sublime…_

“Ichabod, to your mark.”

They lost count of how many times and how may ways they did the scene. Faster pacing. Slower. More anguish from Hope. More bewilderment from Faith. Shorter kiss. Longer kiss. No kiss, just a hug. A kiss on the cheek. No dialogue. Redo because of a noisy airplane.

“Cinnamon, huh?” Abbie asked when they finally finished for the day.

“Better than a burrito, I thought,” Ichabod answered.

Suddenly, it was awkward.

They walked in silence for a while. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Yes, famished. I don't suppose you would be in favor of Mexican food,” he suggested with a chuckle.

She stopped and looked at him. “Well, I suppose if we  _both_ had a burrito, it would be all right,” she answered, a curious smile on her face. Then she turned and headed towards her car.

“What?” Ichabod asked, following quickly on his long legs. “Abbie? What do you mean by that?”

xXx

After a stop at Chipotle, Abbie ran inside her condo to get comfortable before she joined Crane at his place to eat their burritos.

There wasn't much conversation, but the elephant was taking up a sizable portion of his condo.

Finally, after dinner, while they were seated on his couch, Abbie addressed the ever-growing pachyderm. “I take it back,” she said.

“Take what back?” he asked, looking over at her.

“What I said about your kissing style. You… you did good,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Hmm. And here I was hoping you would give me a private master class,” he carefully answered, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“What?”

He scooted closer. “Surely there is some aspect at which I could improve,” he suggested, moving closer, wanting nothing more than to dive for her and kiss her – Abbie, not Faith – senseless.

The scene, the repetition, kissing her again and again… it had been an awakening for Ichabod, forcing him to face the feelings he'd been denying since he laid eyes on her the night he arrived in Atlanta. Feeling he'd been unconsciously denying since the moment he first met her. Forcing him to remind himself that he is an  _actor_ who is supposed to be  _acting._

Abbie enticingly bit her lower lip. “Well, um…” she paused, trying to come up with something –  _anything –_ to get his lips on hers again. When she changed clothes before coming over, she had to change her panties as well, a little embarrassed at this apparent lack of professionalism.  _God, what happens if they give us a full love scene?_ she had wondered. “Maybe I need a reminder. You know, it's been a few hours since we—mm!”

Ichabod pounced before she finished her sentence, silencing her words with his own mouth, leaning her back on the couch.

In moments, she was beneath him, fully engulfed by his much larger body. He was not  the proper gentleman Detective Inspector Nathaniel Hope, esquire. Gone was the careful reserve held in check, the stiff-upper-lip demeanor of the character he so adeptly inhabited. This was  _Ichabod_ . A very  warm , surprisingly very passionate Englishman who knows exactly how to court an American woman. How to court  _this_ American woman. His tongue boldly slid forward, and her mouth opened for him, giving back everything she got from him. He groaned as her left hand strayed up into his hair.

“Abbie,” Ichabod rasped, moving his lips to skim along her jawline.

“Oh, God, what are we doing?” Abbie asked, breathless as he moved to her neck. She instinctively tilted her head back to give him better access.

“If you have to ask, I must be doing something wrong,” he answered, grinning against her skin. He nudged the strap of her tank top to the side and placed a line of wet kisses on the ridge of her collarbone.

“Oh, you're _so_ doing it right...” she replied, her right hand finding its way under the hem of his shirt.

His reply was nothing but a pleasurable hum and his lips pressing against the swell of her breast above the neckline of her tank. He moved one hand from her back to her side, just skirting the edge of her breast. His thumb moved, boldly stroking the side.

“Crane,” she said, struggling for sanity, trying to keep her wits about her. “ _Ichabod._ ”

He lifted his head, but did not move his hand or his body. He stared down at her, blinking his blue eyes at her. His pupils were blown wide with arousal and his lips were pink and slightly swollen. Unthinkingly, his tongue darted out and licked them as he waited for her to say something.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, watching his tongue.  _Focus, Ab._ “I don't know if this is a good idea,” she finally said, hating herself. His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “I mean, I don't know if this is a good idea right  _now_ ,” she clarified.

He moved off of her, confused and a little frustrated, but determined not to push her. “Forgive me,” he apologized.

“Ichabod,” she sighed, scooting up into a sitting position. She adjusted her strap. “You don't need to apologize. I… I want this. I want _you._ But…”

“But?” he asked. His heart swelled at hearing she wanted him, but he was still off balance.

“I don't want to be your rebound girl. I _will not_ be your rebound girl. I deser—”

“Of course you deserve better than that,” he agreed. He turned to face her, taking her hands in his. “I don't know how to get you to believe this, but… you're not my rebound. I…” He trailed off, trying to get his thoughts in order; wishing he had his character's eloquence to better convey his thoughts. His feelings. He kissed her hands, then released them. “You are the person with whom I am meant to be. It's as simple as that.”

“But I'm still _technically_ a rebound, since I'm the first person since… her. That's what people are going to call it,” she countered. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could see it.

He waved his hand. “Semantics and bullshit,” he said, his tone dismissive. Her face had a very clear  _excuse me?_ expression, so he continued. “You are concerned about other people's opinions, and they don't matter.”

“Crane…” she sighed, not wanting to have to go down _that_ road with him again. You Can Do and Say Pretty Much Whatever You Want Because You’re a White Man Road. With a left turn down I Keep My Head Down Because I’m a Black Woman and Will Immediately Have Accusations Thrown at Me Lane.

“I know, I know,” he acquiesces. “And of course I will respect your wishes. But… if I may… The ubiquitous ‘They’ aside, how do _you_ feel?”

Abbie looked down. “I think you know how I feel,” she quietly said.

“I would like to hear it,” Ichabod replied. “I’m a greedy man, and… I want to hear it from your lips.” He reached out and caressed her lower lip with his thumb.

“I'm falling pretty hard here,” she softly admitted. “I've been denying it for a long time, but I really…” she trailed off, trying to explain how she felt without using the 'L' word, because while she knows she's not there yet, she could get there pretty easily. “I really like you. Like, _like you_ like you.”

He chuckled again and tugged her hands until she took the hint and curled up on his lap. “I know,” he whispered in her ear. She smacked his chest, trying not to laugh. “I am quite taken with you as well, Miss Mills.”

xXx

Of course they kept it a secret. From everyone. Jenny and Frank may have suspected, but they never said anything.

It wasn't difficult. They spent so much time together anyway, and they were careful to continue seeing the others socially as well, getting together for dinners now and then, or just hanging out. Then, when everyone went home, Ichabod would slip over to Abbie's or Abbie would sneak over to Ichabod's.

Thankfully, the two condos in between theirs were not inhabited by anyone from the show.

Understandably, Abbie was the more skittish of the two about going public. Ichabod completely understood. The last thing he wanted was for his Abbie to be called “homewrecker” or worse. There was a segment of fans of the show who, for whatever reason, chose not to like her or Faith, and they were never kind to Faith. And as soon as the finale airs and they see the kiss, he knows it's only going to get worse.

The last thing she needed is to have her private life thrown into the public eye as well.

People were already talking anyway. As soon as the press got wind of Ichabod's divorce, the vultures swooped in with their conjecture and judgement about the costars' “close friendship”. There were petty headlines with far-fetched hypotheses like  _Close “Friendship” With Co-Star Blamed for “Faith and Hope” Star's Divorce_ and  _“Faith and Hope” Star's Unexpected Divorce Surrounded by Rumors of On-Set Romance._ Luckily, none of these articles were taken seriously by anyone, and most people decried them as complete crap.

Ichabod was very thankful for the lawyer he hired who suggested putting a clause in the divorce agreement forbidding either of them from speaking to the press about any aspect of their relationship.

Abbie and Crane were happy in their private little bubble, their own secret world where only the two of them exist.

xXx

“You're not going back to London,” Abbie said a week later. They would be done filming in just over a week, and the thought of him jetting back across the pond had been weighing on her mind.

“That didn't sound like a question,” Ichabod chuckled, kissing her. They were snuggled on the couch in Abbie's condo. They spend nearly every evening together, but always sleep separately, choosing to proceed slowly. In fact, Ichabod has thus far only made it to second base. Abbie asked if they could move slowly, and he of course agreed. He wanted her to be happy, and could not deny that moving slowly was a wise move.

“It's not a question. You can go visit, but you're staying in the U.S. this summer,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. “You still have a place in New York, right?”

“Yes,” he answered. He kissed her again. “If I go visit, would you consider accompanying me?”

“I will consider it,” she said. “Neither of us have any work lined up for this summer yet, so we'll have to see.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

She laid her head back on his chest, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the Food Network.

“Did I ever tell you why Katrina pushed the wedding date up?” Ichabod suddenly asked.

“Because of the show. She knew you'd be coming here and the scheduling would be difficult, so to make things simpler, you got married before we started filming the Season We Do Not Talk About,” Abbie answered.

He chuckled once. “That was the reason she gave. The real reason is she was afraid she was going to lose me.” He stared at her, hard.

“To me?”

He nodded. “Calvin told me a few weeks ago.” He sighed. “She ran into him at the market. He didn't want to talk to her, but she wouldn't let him escape. She asked him if he'd spoken to me.”

“Had you?”

“Some texts. Nothing significant,” he answered. “He said it felt like she was pumping him for information.”

“Do you think she regrets it? Divorcing you?” she carefully asked.

“I don't care,” he answered after a beat. “Now that I know how petty and jealous she is, I am happy to be rid of her.” He pauses. “That sounded rather harsh of me, didn't it?”

“It sounded real,” she answered. “You know you've never needed to filter yourself around me.”

He kissed her. “I know. It is one of the many things I love about you,” he said, laying his head back down. They were quiet for several minutes, watching the show. “It would have fallen apart eventually,” he suddenly said.

“Yeah, people can't hide their true colors forever,” she replied. “We both know this.”

“We were both hurt by it,” he added. He tightened his arms around her. “We are fortunate, you know. Having been friends for so long first. It helps.”

She smiled, snuggling against him. “It does. Like, I already know you don't like to share food. Especially desserts.”

“And I know all about your foul mouth,” he chuckles.

“Fuck you; yours is just as bad,” she retorted, laughing.

“I am a paragon of proper language and etiquette,” he protested, his eyes dancing. “You forget I am _classically trained_.”

“And apparently _you_ have forgotten your, 'Shit, I have to be classy,' comment from ComiCon,” she argued, turning around to face him. Still laughing, she moved until she was sitting on his stomach. “And 'classically trained' does not equal 'classy', Mister,” she continued, jabbing him in the ribs with a finger.

He yelped, grabbing for the offending digit. She eluded him, laughing and squirming and evading his hands as they try to grab for her.

“That… is… _it_ ,” Ichabod suddenly said, wrapping his arms around her. Before Abbie realized what has happened, she was under him on the couch and no longer laughing.

“Oh,” she softly exclaimed, then his lips were on hers again, hungrily kissing her, his hands gripping her sides.

The kiss quickly grew heated, their desire for one another growing each night they spent together without giving in to what they both want but are a little afraid to do. Each night, pushing the unspoken boundaries a little further, indulging a little more.

“Abbie,” he rasped her name like a prayer, moving his lips to her neck, kissing every bit of exposed skin he can around the edges of her tank top.

“Ohhh, I love the way you say my name,” she sighed, a breathy whisper. Her leg was wound around his, and his right hand seemed to be working its way under the hem of her top.

He reflexively pressed his hips into her, allowing her to feel his arousal, and she moaned. He hummed pleasurably in response, sucking on her neck.

“Don't you dare... mmm... leave a mark,” she warned, her heart not really in it.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he murmured against her skin, sliding his hand higher. “Good God, Abbie,” he suddenly exclaimed, stilling with his hand covering her breast beneath her shirt. Her bare breast. “You might've warned me.”

She swallowed back her snort of laughter. “Not my fault you don't pay attention,” she answered. “Now, you gonna do something with it or just use it as a place to rest your hand?”

His thumb moved reflexively, skimming over the taut nipple of her bare breast. “Well, it would be a shame to waste this opportunity,” he said with a smirk, eyebrow raised. “Clearly,” he kissed her neck again, his hand continuing to caress her breast, “your forgetting to wear a bra must not be ignored.” He lifted his elbow, shoving her tank top higher as he moved his head lower.

“Who said anything about _forgetting_ to wear one?” she asked, a crafty smile on her face as she arched her back, encouraging him.

“Devil woman.” His muttered response was muffled a bit at the end when he closed his lips over her stiff nipple, sucking at and swirling his tongue around it.

She slid her hand into his hair and moaned.


	5. Chapter 5

Crane’s New York apartment was a mess. Well, not so much a mess as a… battle zone. After.

It wasn't how he had left the place.

“Well, this is… Spartan,” Abbie said, peeking around Ichabod's elbow. He had stopped dead in his tracks two steps into the place, blocking her view. “What do you call this style, exactly?” If she hadn't seen the TV, she would have wondered if he'd been robbed.

“Disgruntled Ex, I believe,” he replied, snapping out of his shock. He sighed, ran his long fingers through his now much longer hair, and strode the rest of the way inside, tossing his keys on the counter. He kicked his suitcase in frustration, and it fell over with a _thud._

“Do you need to call your lawyer?” Abbie asked, gently closing the door. It was a nice place, not terribly large, but not cramped. The furniture was minimalist, with clean lines and muted tones. If she had to guess, she would say Ichabod decorated this place, not his ex-wife.

The furniture was pretty much the only thing left in the place. There were hooks and nails in the wall where decorations were hastily yanked down – some in place, some dangling – and most of the kitchen cupboards are partially open. There was a television, but no DVD player. A bare coffee table. No lamps on the end tables. Pretty much anything that could be carried out, was.

“No,” Ichabod sighed. “I knew she was coming here to collect her things at some point.” He walked into the other room, presumably a bedroom. “No linens,” his voice drifted out. “No towels.” Even more distant, from the bathroom. He reappeared a moment later. “She mailed her key to my lawyer some time ago, so I knew she had been and gone. It's fine. I don't care. They are only things.”

“It's petty as hell, is what it is,” Abbie said, peeking into the kitchen cupboards and drawers before properly closing them for him. “She took your dishes. And your silverware.” She closed the last drawer, then reached for her bag, withdrawing a pen and a small pad of paper.

“What are you doing?” he asked, stepping over.

“Making a list. We're going shopping,” she answered, writing _dishes, flatware, bed things,_ and _towels_ on the pad. “What else?”

“DVD player,” he contributed. “Toaster.”

“She took the _toaster?_ ” Abbie exclaimed in mock horror, clutching imaginary pearls in shock. “What an absolute beast!”

xXx

Several hours later, they returned, laden with things to turn his ransacked place back into a home.

“I think we were spotted a few times,” Ichabod said, holding his hand out to receive the edge of the fitted sheet she was handing him.

“Probably,” Abbie sighs. “We knew it was bound to happen.” They had discussed it on the way to Ikea, and decided since enough time had passed since the divorce and filming was over, if people saw them together in public, so be it. It wasn't ideal, but it was unavoidable.

“I imagine we'll know soon enough,” he replied.

Together, they set about making his bed, smoothing the sheets, dropping pillows into cases, and spreading the new duvet over it all.

She reached down to arrange the pillows, and just before she straightened up, she felt him behind her. Close.

“Crane…” she said, intending to be a warning, to tell him they have more things to put away, but instead it comes out as husky sigh.

His hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him. “I think it's time we took a break,” he murmured, his lips on her neck.

“We still have a lot of… oh, right there…” her protest turned into encouragement when he found her favorite spot, and she melted against him.

By some sort of silent agreement, they knew it was Time. Before she knew it, the freshly-made bed was getting un-made and she was being laid down on it.

Ichabod yanked his shirt off over his head, not bothering with the buttons, then prowled over her on the bed, dropping kisses as he made his way to her lips. He claimed them, letting her know his intent without words.

Abbie answered by arching against him and grabbing a fistful of his hair. He pulled at her shirt, tugging it upwards. She sat up, pulled the offending garment off, and threw it… somewhere.

He took advantage of her upright position and reached around her back, unhooking her bra. It quickly joined their shirt on the floor.

She laid back down and he began hungrily kissing her breasts, closing his mouth over one nipple, sucking just hard enough to make her gasp.

As he worshipped her breasts, his hand was busy working the button of her jeans, hastily tugging them open. She lifted her hips and he leaned back to tug them down over her legs. He pulled her socks off, kissed the toes of one foot, then set about removing his own khakis.

She leaned up on her elbows, watching him with keen interest as he stripped down. He dropped his boxer briefs and strode back towards her, smirking.

“Gonna wipe that smug expression right off your face,” she said, reaching up for him. She pulled him down, then, moving quickly, flipped them so she was on top. Now it was her time to smirk.

“Oh, you think you have the upper hand, do you?” he asked, sliding his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

“I wasn't aware this was a competition, but... yeah, kinda,” she answered with a light shrug, rocking her hips on top of him.

He groaned and his eyes closed. “Maybe you do…”

She laughed, then moved just enough to remove her panties and toss them aside. She climbed back astride him, sliding her body enticingly over his, stretching her small body out over his long, lean form. She slipped her hand down between them and took his cock in her hand.

“Unhh… yes… you definitely do…” The words came out slightly strained.

She grinned triumphantly, stroking him a few times, getting the feel of him. She'd only felt him through layers of clothes before, so she knew he was packing. But this was  _so_ much better. She leaned down and kissed him, taking her time, slyly moving him into place as she did so.

She released his lips and shifted, sinking down over him, slowly, decadently. “Mmm,” she hummed her pleasure as she began to move.

“God, Abbie…” he whispered, like a prayer, his hands coming to rest on her hips for just a moment before sliding up to ghost over her breasts, not wishing to leave any part of her un-tended.

She braced her hands on his chest, using it as leverage as she pumped up and down on top of him. He moved beneath her, lifting his hips in time with her motions, meeting her thrust for thrust like this was something they've been doing for years instead of the very first time.

He groaned again, a deep, throaty sound that made her stomach clench deliciously as a gasp escaped from her mouth. He slid one hand upward, caressing her neck, tracing her lips with his fingers.

She grabbed his hand and slipped his index finger into her mouth, biting it lightly and sucking it hard. She she swirled her tongue around the long digit, watching with satisfaction as his eyes rolled back and closed.

She released his finger and he trailed it down her chest, leaving a faint wet line until his hand stopped between her thighs. He flicked his thumb lightly across her clit. She cried out, a throaty grunt, and it was his turn to smirk. “Don't stop,” she ordered, rocking her hips against him, her whole body undulating over him.

His breathing became harsh and rapid; his cheeks flushed as he came closer and closer to his release. He kept his thumb working her as she moved over him, her head thrown back now.

“Oh... shit... oh, yeah... Ichabod... oh! Ah...” Abbie gasped a series of short exclamations as she came crashing down over him, her body bucking, her hand swatting his away, the sensations too much.

He dug his fingers into her hips, thrust a handful of times, then stilled, his entire body taught like a drawn bow, a low, strangled growl coming from his throat as he released into her. It sounded vaguely like her name could have been garbled in there somewhere, but she wasn't sure and decided she really didn't care.

Abbie collapsed over Ichabod, spent, lying on top of him. “Holy shit, man,” she said once she was able to form words again.

“That was fucking amazing,” he agreed. She snorted. “No pun intended,” he added, chuckling. He lifted her chin, tilting her face towards himself for a kiss. “There is so much more I want to do to you,” he said, his voice a low seduction.

“ _To_ me?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“I don't believe I was being unclear,” he said, kissing her again. “I have waited – _we_ have waited so long for this that I do not intend to allow you to leave this place walking normally.”

“Oh really? Those are some big words.” She couldn't hold back her grin in the face of his arrogance. _It's actually really sexy._

“I'm all about big, Treasure,” he replied, suggestively waggling his eyebrows and shifting his hips enough to make his point.

She snorted again, but didn't dispute his words. “We still need to put this place together.”

“Plenty of time,” he said, vaguely waving one hand. “I plan on staying here for a while. It seems I have a reason to stick around New York.”

Abbie smiled up at him. “I'm happy you are sticking around.”

“Good,” he replied. He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, his face suddenly thoughtful. “I love you.”

“I know that.” She leaned up and kissed him. “I love you, too.”


End file.
